Sweet Caroline

by Micqui Miller

  The pull from each side grew stronger. She owed Ian her loyalty, but her heart wanted her to stay right there. As much as she hated to admit it, the more time she spent with Mick, 132

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  the more she wanted to be with him. His smile, so warm and inviting, made her feel like the most desirable woman on the planet. She wanted to rush into his arms and follow wherever he led.

  From the look in Mick's eyes as they leisurely trailed from the top of her sapphire-colored sheath that stopped well above her knees, to her freshly painted toes that wriggled under his scrutiny, she knew he wanted her, too. Several times during the day, they'd come so close to really touching—the second or two he'd rubbed her foot, when their hands barely brushed, when she turned one way and he the other, and they collided, when he'd slipped off her sandals so she could walk in the sand, when he'd held her hand and helped her into the Jeep. The mundane things she wouldn't have thought twice about with anyone else had electrified both of them. She saw it in his eyes, in the way his breath caught, in the surprise he tried to hide while the tiniest tremors betrayed him.

  But Ian was paying her. This was a business dinner, not a date. She'd spent most of last night and a snippet of this afternoon preparing a report they'd be discussing. She owed Ian her loyalty far more than she owed Mick the rush of her hormones. Mick, who might very well be related to her. Ian was the first to return her greeting. "You look lovely this evening, Caroline."

  In all fairness, Caroline had to admit Ian had tried to look his best, too. Nattily attired as always, he wore a suit that cried out Armani or Bijan, a white dress shirt and Gucci tie. Unfortunately, the gray of the suit drained the color and life 133

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  from his face, just the opposite of how the touch of rust in Mick's jacket added to his vitality. If they'd stood side by side, Ian would appear old enough to be Mick's father yet she knew they were no more than ten years apart.

  "Thank you," she answered, and made her decision about which path she'd take. Mick's magnetism won over her good sense.

  "Not as good as straight out of bed in your nightshirt," he whispered when she passed close to him. Close enough that he'd managed to snag her hand. She'd tried not to look down and call attention to the fact that their fingers were entwined, and yet the slightest touch of his skin against hers had rendered her speechless. More loudly, he said, "Indeed you do look lovely, Ms. Spring."

  Reluctantly she pulled her hand away. "Are you joining us?" she asked, hoping Ian hadn't guessed what was happening below his line of vision.

  "Absolutely not," both Ian and Mick answered simultaneously and so forcefully that Caroline's steps faltered. She looked first at Ian then at Mick. Neither man looked at the other. This was ridiculous as a duel. Would they draw Derringers next?

  Ian blinked first. In seconds, his sour expression disappeared, and the gracious and charming Ian she'd first met took his place. Caroline had seen the chameleon side of him before. The changes were usually subtle, and to those who knew him well, probably went unnoticed. To someone new to the scene, like Caroline, these changes were 134

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  sometimes comical, other times unnerving, and always unsettling.

  He turned his wrist and fingered back a French cuff to check his watch. "Caroline, we're really quite late." Reluctant to put distance between Mick and her, yet knowing she had no choice, Caroline said, "I'm right here, Ian," and to Mick added, "We'll be out of your way in a minute."

  He shrugged off her apology. "No problem." He's headed for the Golden S & T. At least, that's what she wanted to believe, but something about the fragrance of his aftershave told her he was more likely meeting a friend than family. Apparently he'd recovered from his disappointment about the dinner they wouldn't share.

  "Enjoy," she said, hoping her voice held more enthusiasm than she felt.

  Once seated in the fine leather bucket seat, Caroline dared a look back and caught Mick staring at her and the already short skirt that had risen high on her thighs. In the same instant, Ian slammed the car door, effectively blocking Mick's view, and Caroline's as well.

  "That son of a bitch has more cajones than the full herd at Pamplona," Ian groused while he buckled up and started the engine. "He was standing at the window, watching when I pulled up, like he knew I was coming..." Caroline shifted her position, so she could catch a last glimpse of Mick before Ian put too much distance between them. He now stood opposite the driver's seat of the Jeep, a hand resting on the frame of the windshield, the other hand 135

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  on his hip. They were too far to make eye contact, but she knew he was looking back at her.

  "...I don't understand why women fall all over him," Caroline heard Ian say, and had to bite back the retort that danced at the tip of her tongue, the one that would have gladly told him what Mick had that he did not.

  "Ian, let's not spoil the evening talking about him," she said, hoping the use of a pronoun rather than Mick's name might still troubled waters.

  "You're right, my pretty Caroline." He startled her by reaching over and resting his hand on hers. She fought the instinct to pull away. That would only make matters worse. "Oh look," she said, "the light's changed. You can go now."

  They'd driven several miles in silence except for the Beamer's incredible sound system that immersed the car's interior first with Mozart then Chopin.

  "We're going to L'Etoil," Ian said. "It is the place, the crème de la crème of Marin." He frowned. "It took me weeks to get this reservation, and I'm fairly well known in Marin." She knew she should tell him that he was very well known, that he was one of Marin's movers and shakers, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. She owed him loyalty, not an evening of kissing up. She smiled sweetly. "Ian, I'm very flattered, but wouldn't you prefer being with a special lady this evening?" To punctuate her point, she thrust the file folder she brought with her between them. "We can always discuss this on Monday, if you'd prefer..." 136

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  "My sweet, lovely Caroline," he interrupted. "There's no one I'd rather spend time with than you. Forget the report. You're working too hard as it is. Let's enjoy the evening, shall we?"

  Oh, good God. She cringed at the idea that he might try to pat her hand again. She fetched her purse and riffled through it. This wasn't a date! "Look, Ian, I really appre—"

  "I'll bet they're headed for L'Etoil, too," Ian interrupted, pointing to the stretch limo that had coasted to a stop next to them. "You'll see, Caroline, it's truly first cabin." She glanced at the chauffeur-driven vehicle. So what? she wanted to snap at him. She didn't give a damn if he were taking her to the Court of St. James, so long as he didn't consider it a date. "I'm sure it will be lovely, but, Ian, you have to understand—"

  "Of course, I understand, Caroline, Dallas has many impressive places, too. I've been to the Petroleum Club several times." The signal changed, and the limo shot ahead and cut in front of them. "Damn it!" Ian slammed on the brakes. "What the hell's the matter with that driver? I almost smashed into him."

  Caroline had to agree. Only the seatbelt kept her from sliding to the floor at Ian's quick stop. "Whoa," she said, righting herself. "I admire your restraint. I think I would have laid on the horn until he went deaf."

  "Are you all right?"

  "I'm fine, now as I was saying—"

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  "See that," Ian interrupted her a third time. " That's why he cut me off." He flipped on his turn indicator, smiling, eager.

  "Just as I'd thought, they're going to L'Etoil, too." Caroline couldn't believe what she was hearing. One second Ian was furious about being cut off, now, because they'd all be dining at the same stupid restaurant, it was okay that they'd caused a ne
ar collision. "The food had better be good."

  In the long drive that circled in front of the restaurant, the limo pulled well ahead of them, leaving room for Ian's car right at the valet station. In seconds, a young man in his early twenties helped Caroline from the car and whisked Ian and her into the lobby.

  "Two for Foy," Ian said to the maître d', a swarthy-looking fellow in a tux who took his time running his finger down the list of reservations. After a second pass, he looked up at them and smiled. "We have a lovely little table in back, but it will be about half an hour. Would you care to wait in the bar or on the terrace?"

  "In back?" Ian said. Caroline saw a splotch of crimson color the back of his neck. "We'd talked about the table right there." Ian craned his neck and pointed to a table near a fabulous marble sculpture, two lovers that rose at least twenty feet above the floor. While the table was in the center of the room, the statue provided enough privacy to stave off curious eyes.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Foy, you must have misunderstood. That table is permanently reserved."

  "There's no one sitting there."

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  "Mr. Foy, please keep your voice down. That table is out of the question."

  "Even if it's not being used?" Ian reached in his pants pockets and pulled out a money clip. He pushed a $50 bill toward the maître d', who stepped back, as if the currency were a dead rat. "Mr. Foy, please."

  "Ian, we don't have to stay," Caroline said, embarrassed.

  "It's all right."

  "No, it's not. That's the table I reserved, and that's the table I intend to have."

  "Give it to him, Pierre," Caroline heard a familiar voice say.

  "Mrs. Mustafa and I can always dine at the little table in back."

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  Chapter Eleven

  IF CAROLINE HADN'T stepped aside, the maître d' might have plowed right through her in his rush to greet the beautiful, dark-skinned woman who stood beside Mick and who made Caroline's stomach ache and her throat turn dry.

  "Ah, Mrs. Mustafa, Dr. Mahoney," Pierre gushed. "Your table is waiting as always." He leaned back, dramatically clutching his hands against his chest. "You should have called. We would have put your champagne on ice." Mrs. Mustafa, Pierre had called her. Where was Mr. Mustafa? Certainly not one of the two lackeys who stood a respectful distance behind them. "Tonight we cannot stay, Pierre," the woman said in delicately accented English, her voice a lush contralto, smooth and sensual. She took Mick's arm and to Caroline's surprise, addressed Ian. "Mr. Foy, I am Lisette Mustafa. I am sorry my driver was so careless. Dr. Mahoney pointed out to me that we might have hit you. Please, take our table. It's the least we can do." Ian stood straighter as the woman spoke, preening like a peacock about to billow its feathers. "That's very kind of you."

  "Pierre, Mr. Foy and his daughter shall be my guests."

  "Daughter?" both Ian and Caroline cried in unison. The woman had the grace to look embarrassed, although Caroline caught a flicker of conspiracy in the glance exchanged between Mick and her. "Oh, I am mistaken, I see," she said. "Please accept my apologies." 140

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  Caroline cocked her head to one side, speculating on what might happen next. The ball was clearly in Ian's court. How would the chameleon deal with it, especially with a circle of waiting diners inching closer to the action?

  "You flatter me, Mrs. Mustafa. This lovely young lady is my colleague, Ms. Spring, not my daughter."

  "Miss Spring," Mrs. Mustafa offered her hand. Caroline shook hands with the woman who wore a mauvecolored dress with tiny pearls hand-sewn throughout a delicate, lacy fabric. She wouldn't hazard a guess what it must have cost, but knew that the silk dress she wore, the one she'd bought on her last trip to Hong Kong and had spent a month's salary on, looked like fish wrapping in comparison.

  "Mrs. Mustafa, a pleasure."

  "And this is Dr. Mahoney,"

  Caroline had saved her most evil glower for this moment.

  "I've already had the pleasure."

  "Caroline, Ian," Mick said, bowing his head ever so slightly.

  "Now please, Pierre," Mrs. Mustafa said. "Show these lovely people to my table and get them whatever they want." She shook a tapered, beautifully manicured finger at him. "Do not scrimp on the wine. Anything they wish from my stock." Ian held up a hand to stop her. "You're too kind. We can't accept this."

  "Of course, you can. It's the least I can do." She turned to Mick. "I seem to have left my appetite at home, mon ami. Shall we ask Pierre to pack some little things that we can savor on our way?"

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  Caroline watched Mick look deeply into those dark, brilliant eyes. She tried to swallow back a lump the size of softball that had lodged in her throat.

  "Whatever you'd like," he answered in a tone that oozed the promise of lovemaking with every syllable. It raised the prickly little hairs on the back of Caroline's neck. How easily he threw that tone around. At least she'd never be fooled by it again.

  All business now, Mick turned to Pierre. "A few oysters, a good Dom, a little Buluga..." He smiled. "You know what we want."

  Oysters, caviar, champagne. Foods that anyone over eighteen knew were supposed to be aphrodisiacs.

  "Very good, sir," Pierre said before turning to Ian and Caroline. With two menus in his hand, he gestured toward the most sought-after table in the dining room. "Monsieur, Mademoiselle, right this way, please."

  "Bon appetite," Mick called to them as he led Mrs. Mustafa toward the bar, leaving Caroline to curse the fact that she didn't know how to say "Bite me!" in Gaelic.

  * * * *

  IT WAS AFTER midnight when Ian patted his lips with his napkin for what Caroline hoped was the last time. He pushed aside the crystal dish that had only dregs left from Cherries Jubilee, and downed the last of his cognac. The fois gras was the only thing on the menu he hadn't ordered, but with three other appetizers, even Ian Foy couldn't finish another. 142

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  Caroline didn't doubt the check would tote up to the high three figures after his last burp.

  Throughout the meal he'd seesawed between raving about the food or railing at Mick and any other Mahoney he could think to include in his tirade. His paranoia grew with each bite, and his accusations against Brian and his cousins burgeoned with every dish served.

  Caroline's head had begun aching with her bouillon. Her vision began to blur with the salad service, and even the delectable, freshly baked French bread tasted like sawdust. She'd told him over and over again that she'd uncovered nothing. Showed him her charts and spreadsheets. Made him read two summary paragraphs twice to be sure he understood. Finally, exasperation tingeing every word, she said, "Why won't you accept what I'm saying, Ian? I have found no proof—zero, zip, nada, that anyone is trying to subvert the ZyQyx network, not Brian Mahoney, nor anyone else."

  Ian would have none of it. He'd ordered another bottle from Mrs. Mustafa's private reserve and renewed his assault. By the time the waiter set their entrées in front of them, Caroline had given up. Now, with the dining room cleared, she prayed he'd finish soon.

  "Ian, please," She saw he was about to signal the captain for another cognac. She didn't know where he lived, and she had no intention of putting him up for the night at her place. She also had no intention of riding twenty miles home with a man who'd single-handedly downed two martinis, two bottles of wine, and now two generous splashes of cognac. 143

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  "Caroline, how often doesh a man dine like a king without worrying about a..." hiccup "...piper to pay?" Oh, you'll pay the piper. Wait until you open your eyes in the morning—if you can open your eyes in the morning. "Ian, it's late. They want to close."


  "I'm shuhprised at you. I thought you'd be a better shport, more adventurous," Ian said, ending the slurred sentence with another hiccup.

  Caroline had to turn away. Otherwise he would have seen her disgust. "Our adventure's over, Ian. You're drunk." His head shot up and he pounded the table with his fist.

  "The hell I am."

  She picked up her purse. "I'm going to ask Pierre to call a taxi for you," she said, keeping her voice low. "You're in no condition to drive."

  "Nonshenz," he answered loudly and snapped his fingers in the direction of the captain. The server looked at them over the rims of his glasses. He made no move to respond, especially after Caroline shook her head no. Purse in hand, she pushed her chair back and stood. "I'm leaving, Ian."

  "What?" he looked at her with foggy eyes. "Whajewsay?"

  "Good night."

  Pierre waited for her in the lobby. Caroline opened her purse and threw down a credit card. "I understand that Mrs. Mustafa is paying for dinner, but I'd like to leave the gratuity. Thirty percent is fine."

  He took her card. "Would Mademoiselle like a driver?" 144

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  "One for Mr. Foy. I'll take his car keys, please. I'll make sure he gets them in the morning."

  "As you wish."

  Caroline signed the receipt without looking at the cost—

  thirty percent of Mrs. Mustafa's bill and the cost of a taxi. She didn't think twice about it. She'd submit the charge with the rest of her expenses for this assignment. She folded the receipt and handed it to Pierre. "Will you be sure Mr. Foy takes this with him?" she said, regretting only that she wouldn't be there to see the look on Ian's face when he realized how much his "free dinner" cost him.

  * * * *

  CAROLINE LEFT IAN'S Beamer parked on the street in front of the Mahoney Building and stepped out into a blanket of bone-chilling fog and mist that enveloped the street and muted the sounds of the night. It was nearing one o'clock. She shivered as she fumbled for her keys, grateful when she stepped into the hall where cheery nightlights welcomed her. She couldn't remember a time she'd been happier to be home.